


Chaser

by linguamortua



Series: Twink Brock Rumlow [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Dom/sub, Face-Fucking, Gangbang, HYDRA Husbands, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Sorry Not Sorry, Twink Brock Rumlow, hot power top jack rollins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 13:12:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5006071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Remember that little talk we had?’ Jack’s breath was hot on the side of Brock’s face. ‘Remember your little fantasy about bikers?’ Brock’s breath caught in his throat; he squirmed in Jack’s grip, suddenly recalling. Face down in the sheets with Jack’s hand on the back of his neck. Wet with sweat and lube, Jack’s deep voice husky with want. Jack telling him to stay still, hold, to wait for it, little slut, wait for it or Jack’d take him to the local bar and let the regulars have a go on him. That was the choice: lie there and take what Jack gave him, or see what a bunch of bikers could dish out. And oh, Brock had wanted both, all of it, all of them; imagined it and whimpered and begged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chaser

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the illustrious [Mathildia](http://mathildia.tumblr.com). Based loosely on a prompt from [Trebeka](http://trebeka.tumblr.com).

In hindsight, Brock had made a bad mistake. Not his first, lately. He’d thought himself pretty sly, renting a car, preparing a believable story and keeping a dark-blue thrift store cap pulled down low over his face. It was kind of a dick move, following Jack on one of his weekend bike rides, but he wanted to know. He was fucking the guy - didn’t he have a right? Jack had shrugged off all his questions, distracting him with a beer or a kiss or a hand on his skin.

‘Haven’t you figured it out, yet?’ Jack asked him now, his voice low, taunting. ‘You can’t fucking fool me, kid.’ His hand was twisted into the back of Brock’s t-shirt, hidden up under his jacket. Jack had ambushed him outside the shitty biker bar when Brock had skipped out his car to take a surreptitious piss in the bushes. He had to have seen Brock pull in and park up. ‘C’mon,’ said Jack, steering him towards the dingy door. The neon lights threw an unnatural pink glow over Jack’s face.

‘What are we doing?’ Brock asked.

‘I’m going to have a drink,’ Jack said. ‘You’re going to be busy.’

‘Busy?’ Brock said, nervy and off-balance. Jack tucked in to one side of the door and snatched Brock in towards him, fists tights on the front of Brock’s jacket.

‘Remember that little talk we had?’ Jack’s breath was hot on the side of Brock’s face. ‘Remember your little fantasy about bikers?’ Brock’s breath caught in his throat; he squirmed in Jack’s grip, suddenly recalling. Face down in the sheets with Jack’s hand on the back of his neck. Wet with sweat and lube, Jack’s deep voice husky with want. Jack telling him to stay still, hold, to wait for it, little slut, wait for it or Jack’d take him to the local bar and let the regulars have a go on him. That was the choice: lie there and take what Jack gave him, or see what a bunch of bikers could dish out. And oh, Brock had wanted both, all of it, all of them; imagined it and whimpered and begged.

‘Did you--’ he began, and his voice squeaked and dried up in his throat. Jack was pushing him back against the wall, face buried in his neck to talk to him secretly, filthily.

‘It’s all arranged,’ Jack said.

‘How did you know I was here?’

Jack laughed, almost fond. ‘You’re easy to read, kid.’

Brock didn’t have time to ask more questions. Jack hustled him inside, tucking Brock into his side in a way that was half-protective, half-jealous. There were half a dozen men sitting along the bar, and another few scattered across the room. Brock’s cheeks were already burning with shame, that it was _arranged_ , that people would know. Nobody looked, though, except the bartender who nodded at Jack. Jack nodded back.

‘Bathroom’s through the green door,’ he said to Brock. ‘Go get yourself sorted out.’

The bathroom was tiny and dingy, with peeling black paint on the walls. The toilet seat was broken and the sink faintly stained with a dark ring around the plug. It smelled of bleach. Brock looked at himself in the smeared mirror. Pretty good. A touch tired, but he was properly clean-shaven and, when he pulled off his cap, he found that his hair hadn’t suffered too badly. He ran his hands through it a few times, making it sit right, and then turned on the water.

Miracle of miracles, it ran hot and there was even a little soap in the wall dispenser. It was almost neon green and smelled acrid but it lathered fine. Brock splashed his face and hands, then shoved his jeans down his thighs and cleaned himself with the awful soap and some thin toilet tissue, which threatened to disintegrate in his hands. It would have to do.

Once clean, he looked at himself in the mirror again. He had distracted himself with washing, but now his nervous excitement rushed back. He gazed at himself through his eyelashes and tried biting his lip. Tilting his chin down and to the left was good; coy but seductive. Brock bit his bottom lip a couple of times and pinched at his cheekbones, making his cheeks flush, making his mouth poutier and fuller. It was a look that worked on Jack. He wondered how Jack was going to fuck him, how this was going to happen. _Surely it’s not going to be all of them?_ His dick stirred at the thought. _It doesn’t happen in real life._ Brock wasn’t sure whether he was trying to reassure himself or not.

When Brock left the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind him, he scanned the room for Jack. He was sitting comfortably in the far corner, in a battered armchair with torn brown leather arms. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle, and he had a drink in one hand. Brock wanted to go to him, but Jack waved him towards the bar where a seat had conspicuously opened up. The black mock leather was still warm when Brock pulled himself up onto the stool. He hesitantly waved at the bartender.

‘Yeah?’

‘Uh,’ said Brock, stupidly. ‘Whiskey. Yeah. Give me a whiskey. With ice.’ The bartender didn’t ask to see ID - Brock didn’t have any on him, anyway. The drink arrived, a small, heavy-based glass. Brock wondered if he should pay now, but the bartender was already off the other end of the bar with two bottles of beer for someone else. Brock tried not to sniff his drink before taking a tentative taste. _Jesus, it tasted bad_. He wondered how the hell Jack drank the stuff, but he sipped it anyway, wanting to be buzzed. To take the edge off. The spotlight above him was warm on the back of his neck and it glinted off the ice cubes, sending rays across the sticky bar top. Brock willed the ice to melt in the warm air and dilute the harsh whiskey. Even so, the liquor was gone almost before he realised, the ice cubes clinking against his teeth, and he set the glass down carefully. He couldn’t make himself look around at the other bar patrons, or at Jack. He hoped he looked like he knew what he was doing here.

He jumped when a big hand landed on his shoulder. It wasn’t Jack. The man was tall and raw-boned, dressed in leathers. He wasn’t unattractive; dark hair, a long nose with a high bridge and a few days’ worth of stubble on his face. The man jerked his head.

‘Up, kid.’ Brock followed, shooting a nervous glance at Jack. Jack gazed back at him, face neutral. There was a long, ugly scraping sound as another of the bar’s patrons dragged a low table across the floor, almost to the middle of the room. The tall man with his hand on Brock’s shoulder pushed him down onto it and Brock sat a little awkwardly, some spilled beer soaking into his jeans under his left thigh. He leaned back on his hands, his knees open. The tall man unzipped his pants without preamble and came in close. Brock could hear the sounds of men around the bar starting to stir, to turn to watch or murmur to a neighbour or move closer. His mouth and throat felt dry, the alcohol still faintly tingling on his lips and tongue. He licked his lower lip and the tall man grinned, his nose making him look hawkish, predatory.

The man’s dick was nothing special, but this close Brock could smell the leather and he shivered, thinking about the way Jack smelled after he’d been on his motorcycle, thinking about Jack’s black leather jacket and his cologne and his sweat. He opened his mouth. He knew how to suck cock. The man tasted like nothing in particular, and he let Brock take his time. Brock’s mouth was still a little dry but it had started to water in his excitement. He pulled off for a moment and nipped the tip of his tongue with his teeth to make the spit flow, then started sucking the guy properly, flicking his eyes up.

At the edge of his vision, two more men walked up. He heard the rustling of clothes and then a hand on his right wrist guiding him to take hold of another cock. Brock shifted his weight onto his left hand. The tall man blew out a long breath; Brock decided to make him wait for it, wanting to tease. He turned his head left and there was a third man, stocky and shaven-headed with tattoos up his thick neck and onto his scalp. His dick was short and thick too. Brock swallowed it down easily, showily, made the guy groan and grab Brock’s hair. The tall guy was evidently feeling left out because he rubbed his cockhead on Brock’s cheek. Brock shuffled, started jerking the guy off with his other hand.

‘Yeah,’ groaned one of the guys - maybe the bald man. ‘Yeah, that’s good.’ Brock rolled his eyes. Of course it was fucking good. So fucking good, in fact, that two guys had pulled up chairs to watch from close up. The whole bar was looking, now, Brock could tell, and oh, he was torn - half of him horribly ashamed and the other half utterly desperate. He’d not seen Jack in two weeks before yesterday, and they hadn’t fucked. He wanted to be touched.

There was a sudden rip and a jerk; behind him, someone had torn his t-shirt right down the back. A hot, sweaty hand ran down his spine, fingers dipping just below his waistband for a second. Brock briefly freed his hands to shrug the ruined shirt off his front, and two of the onlookers took the opportunity to push their way in. Baldie had his hand on Brock’s head and was pushing it all the way down, so Brock couldn’t see anything, couldn’t see the new arrivals. He could feel them though, body heat and jostling closer, and hear their heavy breathing. On the right, a guy with cold, hard hands and an insistent touch, and on the left a cock so thick that Brock could barely get his hand around it, already a little wet at the head.

Brock wanted that cock in his mouth. The guy was uncut, he could feel it, and he liked that. He tried to move, turning so that the table rocked against the floor and a couple of men reached out with greedy hands, trying to bring him back towards them. Somebody grabbed his hips, then, and pulled him up until he was half-standing.

‘Hands and knees,’ said a gravelly voice, and he complied without thinking too hard, the thrill of the order rushing through him so his legs hardly held him up any more. He balanced himself precariously on the table. When Brock chanced a quick look around, he saw that all the men in the room were circling him now - all except Jack. They clustered in, and the hot, humid air in the bar became almost claustrophobically still. The smell of leather and sweat and various deodorants and hair products nearly obscured the old cigarette smoke and booze smell in the bar. It was darker, too. The bar was only dimly light, save for a few working spotlights, but down low on the table with men encircling him Brock could see very little but dark figures and shadows.

There were hands on him, hands everywhere - touching his hair and his naked back and chest, pinching at his nipples and creeping into his jeans. Hands on his belt, undoing it, and on his buttons and zipper. Men tugged at his clothes, trying to strip him. Brock obliged, moving one leg and then the other until they could tug his jeans off. His left sock went with the jeans, and someone held his ankle tightly, like he was a misbehaving horse being shod, to strip off the other sock.

‘Nice,’ said a man with an Eastern European accent, and somebody else made a long, appreciative whistle. Brock flushed, but he knelt up for a moment, knees wide, and ran a hand through his hair to fix it. He couldn’t make out anybody’s features, but he tilted his face up towards what light there was, eyes mostly closed and mouth open, pushing his chest out. He knew what he looked like. He licked his lips, dry again, and someone handed him a glass of water. He drained it immediately and then - _oh_ \- remembered, remembered the good, thick cock that he’d touched so briefly.

A hand on his back brought him back down on all fours and he sought out the man who’d been on his left, saw him, all thick thighs and thick cock and a long, rough scar all the way up his shin. Brock flicked his eyes up, inviting the man, and the guy fed his dick between Brock’s eager lips, one hand under his chin. This guy was a talker.

‘Good boy,’ he said, as Brock made himself take it, made himself blow the guy without using his hands. Brock knew how. He’d done it enough in bathrooms and truck stops and abandoned buildings and cheap motels. This guy was very clean, still smelling like soap, and his hands were sharp-smelling with sanitizer, in a weird politeness that Brock might be able to laugh at later. Now, though, he was too caught up in the sensation of sucking the guy, relaxing his mouth and throat in just the right way. The man’s cockhead reached his throat and for a moment Brock thought it was too much, and then he remembered the trick of it and let it push down, down until the only thing he could do was breathe through his nose and keep his head up. ‘Swallow,’ commanded the man, his fingertips stroking Brock’s throat, feeling his own cock. Brock did. The man groaned, and Brock gagged and drooled over his chin. His eyes were watering and he was about to pull off when the man put a warning hand on his head. ‘Don’t stop,’ he said. ‘Don’t slack off. Come on.’

Brock sucked in a desperate breath and let the guy fuck his throat. As if by some prearranged signal, he heard the little plastic click of a lube bottle - exactly like the one Jack had. Maybe even the same one. Had Jack brought it from home? Brock made a tiny noise at the thought and his dick throbbed in time with his racing heartbeat. Cold fingers, then, pressing between his asscheeks and running over his hole. One hand, then two, opening him up. The lube bottle was set down next to his hand for a moment, and then picked up by someone else. Different fingers came and went, just stroking at first and then pushing into him, a joint at a time. They were careful, these men, but there was so many of them preparing him, using him, pushing inside him with thin or thick or calloused or bony or soft fingers.

One slender hand snaked down under Brock’s belly and touched his dick, just a light, wet stroke. Brock whimpered around the cock in his mouth and pressed into the touch.

‘Don’t touch him,’ said Jack from his corner. His voice was a lazy drawl. ‘Don’t let him come. That’s not what he’s here for.’ The men around Brock laughed.

‘Fuckin’ right,’ groaned the big-dicked guy, running his hand down the back of Brock’s neck and deliberately making Brock choke. ‘Ah, kid, you’re good. That’s good.’ He was close now, panting and thrusting erratically. It was getting Brock hotter, knowing the guy was almost there.

‘He could be better,’ said the Eastern European man, directly behind him now. Two hands spread him wide open; someone else touched his hole with a fingertip. Brock tried to push back onto it and the guy laughed. ‘You want that?’ The cock in Brock’s mouth was briefly removed.

‘Tell him,’ said the man, palming at his thick foreskin. Brock swallowed his mouthful of spit and coughed.

‘I want it,’ he said, quickly, as though the offer might be taken away. Just like that, the guy in front of him came, spattering his mouth and cheek with come. ‘Oh,’ Brock said, stupidly, licking at the corner of his mouth. The man stroked himself through it and Brock watched, mesmerised, leaning forward to lap his foreskin clean. With a chuckle and a final rough pat of Brock’s head, the guy moved out the way, leaving room for Baldie and the tall man who’d first touched him.

‘Fuck him, then,’ said Baldie, impatiently, and he and the tall man both pushed their cocks up to Brock’s mouth, so he was forced to lap at both of them. Between them, he could see Jack sitting in his chair, drink in hand and the sports pages open on his lap. Brock’s eyes, absurdly, prickled with tears. Jack wasn’t even _looking_ , and then behind him, the man with the accent pushed his cock in Brock and he whined for it, even though it was thin and not properly hard and not enough. The guy fucked him as hard as he could, though, shoving him forward onto the men in front. The tall guy was barely even touching Brock, just jerking off right in front his mouth. It didn’t last long, but when he came his load was thin and watery and filled Brock’s mouth.

‘Jack,’ gasped Brock, his mouth salty with a man’s spunk.

‘Aw,’ some guy at the back said across the room. ‘I think he likes you.’ Jack chuckled in response and Brock moaned again. He was starting to lose his grip on things, going all hazy and retreating into the sensations of _hand-cock-hard-wet-salt_ all around him. The Eastern Europe grunted with every thrust and Brock didn’t notice when he came, just when he pulled out.

The next guy was thicker and harder and aimed just right, shoving into Brock’s ass without warning and fucking right up onto his sweet spot, vicious and controlled. Brock squealed around Baldie’s cock and gripped the edge of the table, letting the two men fuck him backwards and forwards. He was almost coming, just then, burning with it, feeling swollen and tight and close to orgasm every time his dick slapped up into his belly. He looked up at Baldie, opening his mouth wide and sticking out his tongue, letting the man see his cock move in and out, see Brock’s wet, tearful face, his eagerness.

In his lust and confusion, Brock would have sworn that Baldie… flickered. He was looking directly up at the man when it happened, when his thick bulldog neck and bald head slid into a lean, angular face and long dark hair falling onto green-clad shoulders. _Our little secret_ , he heard in the recesses of his mind, like a whisper, and then the man who was-and-was-not Baldie came on Brock’s tongue and all he could think of was the sweet musk of it.

He forgot the man. More came to him, opening up his mouth with rough fingers, pulling his hair, telling him to suck the head, lick their balls, open wide, take it, choke on it, beg for it, swallow it. There were fingers in his ass, two and three at a time, men spitting on his hole and pulling it open. He was so wet. Spunk ran down his thighs and chin; his mouth was full of the salt-sweat-slick of half a dozen men’s loads. Brock’s skin was aflame, alive with heat and hypersensitive to every touch, every slap, every pinch and caress. Every time a hard hand slapped or moved or adjusted him, he moaned around the dick in his mouth, or through his teeth. The crowd had cleared a little and he could see Jack again. He fixed his eyes on him, willing the man to look up, to notice. He wanted Jack to be pleased.

‘Please,’ he mumbled, as another man came in his mouth. He swallowed with a thick, wet noise, and then moaned, deliberately loud and desperate, as the man fucking his ass pressed a thumb in alongside his sizeable cock. Jack looked up for a moment and smiled, all teeth. He made a little gesture with his glass, like a salute or a toast, sipped, and looked back at his newspaper again. Jack was hard in his leathers. The zip was half-open to give his erection space, but he wasn’t touching himself.

Some guy in ripped jeans moved up to fuck Brock’s face, and although Brock couldn’t see Jack any more he imagined that he was sucking him off, working the guy’s cockhead with his tongue and cheek, showing off. If Jack looked again, Brock wanted him to see what he could do. What Jack was missing.

He was tired, though, so tired. Men were drifting away as they finished, in his ass or mouth, or on his face, or over his back. One man left the bar, just zipping himself up and walking out the door. Blessedly cool, fresh air wafted across Brock’s sweaty face for a moment. He hurt, too. His jaw was burning and his arms hurt from holding himself up. A deep, stinging pain in his ass, even when whoever was fucking him pulled out. Across the room, Jack had his feet up on the table and he was swirling the last little bit of his drink around in the glass. He signalled to the bartender with one hand, and the man came over and refilled the glass. Jack didn’t look at him, or at Brock, either. He sipped his drink and gazed off into the middle distance as if waiting to pick up his dry-cleaning. His cock still bulged in his leathers, but his free hand rested calmly on his thigh. Brock couldn’t help but compare Jack’s easy posture and composure to the smudged reflection of himself in the glass of a picture frame on the wall; red-faced and sweating, wet and wrecked.

‘Last one,’ said a man behind him, in a voice that sounded ruined. Brock thought he knew who that was - a lean, muscular man with a scarred throat. He had mean hands, hard hands, and he pushed Brock’s face down onto the table and leaned over his back to keep up a vicious, private running commentary. ‘Saving the best ‘til last,’ he rasped into Brock’s ear. ‘Wanted you all to myself, you sweet little bitch.’ Brock writhed and gasped, open-mouthed and hurting but so aroused that he was light-headed. ‘Look at you, being good for your daddy. You even legal, sweetie?’

‘I,’ Brock started, his voice hoarse, almost gone completely. ‘I’m legal. I’m _nineteen_.’ The guy laughed and fucked him harder, and kept fucking him in long, deep strokes like he could do it all night.

‘Daddy should have charged,’ the guy laughed. ‘He could make a fortune off you, sweetie. Take you out every weekend.’ Brock could hardly breathe; surely the man was inside his head, scraping out all his darkest desires and whispering them back to him. ‘Now come on, kid,’ he said, slapping Brock’s thigh so hard that Brock gave a broken little sob. ‘Give your daddy a proper show and maybe he’ll let you jerk off later.’

‘Oh,’ Brock whimpered, looking right at Jack. Jack finally met his eyes. He fucked himself backwards onto the guy’s cock, letting his moans and gasps get louder and higher, pretending he was one of the working girls at the Torrelino faking it for a john in the bathroom. His cock was almost painful, leaking and twitching every time the scarred man slid over his sweet spot. Jack sipped his bourbon and ran his tongue over his teeth. His hand drifted towards his crotch, and Brock watched it as he squealed and wriggled and showed off.

The man cursed as he came, grinding up against Brock’s ass and riding him through it. Brock’s arms gave out and he managed to catch himself before he fell off the little table. He looked over at Jack, who slowly put his glass down and crooked a finger at him, beckoning him over. Brock made to stand but Jack smiled and pointed at the floor, snapping his fingers as if commanding a dog, _down boy, down_. The atmosphere in the bar had changed from the tight, nervous energy of earlier with its dangerous edge, to an easy quiet. A couple of men talked quietly, and the TV on the wall was unmuted and playing sports highlights just loud enough to hear. Everyone heard the table creak as Brock moved off it to kneel on the floor. Everyone heard the shuffle of his bare knees across the sticky floorboards. A few of the patrons watched, making appreciative comments. Brock crawled to Jack, his muscles screaming and the sweat and fluids of a dozen men itching and drying on him.

When he reached Jack, he slumped between his legs, cheek resting on Jack’s leathers for a blissful minute. Jack’s cologne was spicy and heavy around him. He made to undo Jack’s pants, flushed and eager to touch him, but Jack stopped him with his big, warm hands around Brock’s wrists.

‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘You don’t get this yet.’

‘What do I need to do?’ Brock begged, slurring his words, throat scratchy and abused.

‘Be a good boy,’ Jack said. ‘Say thank you. I put a lot of work into this for you.’ Brock closed his eyes and smiled up at Jack, blindly, happily. Jack had done it for him. It had been a gift.

‘Thank you,’ he breathed, and he heard Jack make an amused little hum. Jack cupped his face in his hands.

‘You need a chaser after that?’ He didn’t wait for Brock to reply, just opened his mouth and fed him a shot of viciously strong bourbon. Brock choked on it at first, but drank it down obediently. ‘What do you say?’

‘Thank you,’ Brock repeated. Jack shook him gently by the shoulders, rousing him.

‘Get your clothes,’ he said. ‘We’re leaving.’

Brock didn’t quite remember the walk back across the floor, naked and stumbling; he faintly recalled pulling on his jeans and picking up his shoes, leaving his t-shirt and underwear and the thrift store cap on the floor. He remembered Jack tucking him in close, one arm over his shoulders, and guiding him out to the rental car. The keys had been in Brock’s pocket, but like magic Jack had them, and he got into the passenger side and let Jack drive.

They didn’t go far. About a mile down the road was an abandoned industrial area with crumbling old buildings and burnt-out cars. Jack pulled in behind a low building and killed the engine.

‘Why here?’ Brock asked, exhausted yet curious.

‘Private,’ answered Jack, and he caught Brock by the back of the neck and tugged him down flat. Brock didn’t need a verbal command. He scrabbled at the buttons at Jack’s crotch, and then Jack’s cock was bobbing out, still hard, thick and red and familiar. Brock almost choked himself, getting his lips over the head and sliding down with practised ease. He ignored how tired his face was, the way he smelled, the deep, insistent ache in his own cock. Jack’s fingernails trailed over his scalp and Jack groaned as Brock sucked him.

‘That fuckin’ mouth,’ said Jack. ‘Ah, shit, that’s good.’ His cock pulsed and Brock lapped the precome, teased at the head with his tongue. Jack was trying to hold out, Brock thought, but it didn’t take him long; a little artful moaning from Brock, and Brock’s red-rimmed eyes gazing up at him and Jack threw his head back and came, arching his hips up and bracing himself against the car’s roof with his left hand.

‘Please,’ Brock said as soon as he could speak. ‘Jack, please.’ He climbed awkwardly over the gear stick onto Jack’s lap, and Jack let him, pulled him close. Brock rubbed his hard cock up against Jack’s belly, through his jeans and Jack’s shirt. He could feel tears welling up, eyes and throat stinging. ‘Please let me, please touch me.’ Brock’s jeans were undone - it would hardly take anything, hardly a touch from Jack. He pressed up closer, buried his face in Jack’s neck and smelled him, rubbed his cheek on Jack’s two-day stubble.

Jack turned his head and kissed Brock’s neck, his jawline, and worked a hand into Brock’s jeans. When his hand brushed Brock’s cockhead Brock gave a startled whimper and bucked into the touch.

‘You’re so fuckin’ good,’ Jack told him, low-voiced in the quiet night. ‘So fuckin’ good you need a whole bar full of cocks. You looked great, kid.’ He jerked Brock’s cock in easy strokes and Brock thrust into his hand for more, more friction, more speed. His breath was hot on Brock’s neck and his voice - his voice was getting Brock off faster than anything else. ‘You did that for me, right? All that squealing, fuck, you know what I like.’

‘Yes,’ Brock panted. ‘Yes, yes, Jack, please, Jack--’

He cried out when he came, uncoordinated and almost in tears with relief. He dissolved, like he was coming apart inside, loose and barely conscious of anything but his cock and Jack’s hand. Jack caught him as he slumped forward, let him lean on Jack’s solid, broad chest and pant, and whimper, and come down, his body shaking with fatigue and sudden cold.

* * *

 

It was past one in the morning when they got on the highway. Jack cracked a window open ‘cause fuck, the kid smelled pretty ripe. Okay, technically not his fault, not like it wasn’t inevitable. Brock was asleep against the window, half-curled up in just his jeans. Jack grinned to himself. Good kid. Obliging. He’d greased some palms to set the whole thing up. Carefully planted the notion in Brock’s head to follow him. Made sure the guys were trusted - well, trusted as they could be. Who really knew anyone these days?

Jack glanced across at the kid, mouth open and hair plastered unevenly over his face. No sense at all, and no self preservation. How nuts does a person have to be to just walk in and get fucked like that? Jack remembered Brock falling into his house six months ago, and coming back the next week with godawful cheap whiskey and a cute little attitude. Slouching against the front door in jeans so tight it was a wonder he could walk. And then back again a few days later, and again a month down the line, until Jack finally gave him his phone number and told him to call ahead like a normal person.

Jack parked up as smoothly as he could and fished for his keys. He opened the front door, then headed back to the car. Brock was still out. With a careful arm under Brock’s knees and another around his shoulders, Jack picked the kid up and carried him inside, up the stairs and into the bedroom. Brock mumbled into the pillow and yawned while Jack pulled the covers over him. His eyelashes were long and dark on his cheeks. Like a little fucking cherub, Jack thought with affection, a little cherub covered in jizz. Bless him. He’d have to wash the covers tomorrow though.

Jack didn’t want to leave his motorcycle parked out there; can’t trust anyone, and it was a good machine. He flicked through his phone book looking for a cab number and then, at the bedroom door, paused to look back at Brock.

‘Twelve guys,’ he said to himself softly, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Twelve fuckin' guys.’ He considered. ‘Should’ve charged ‘em all for it.’

He closed the bedroom door quietly, so as not to wake Brock.


End file.
